A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3)

by Laura Trentham

  Her eyes wide with questions, Gertie whispered, “Elspeth?”

  Bryn shook her head. “No news yet, but Mr. Pendleton is aware.”

  Gertie seemed satisfied, even though Bryn questioned whether she should or could do more.

  There was no time to plan. Gertie laced Bryn’s stays tight and plucked her eyebrows. An attempt was even made to curl her hair. It went poorly. Finally Mrs. Winslow declared it a lost cause, and Bryn heaved a huge sigh of relief as Gertie laid the hot tongs aside.

  “Curls may be in fashion, but your beauty is timeless.” Mrs. Winslow paced around her, looking this way and that, then finally snapping her fingers in triumph. “Braids. Here and here, and then wind them together and pin here.”

  Bryn endured the painful tugging, hoping the result would be something more sophisticated than usual. She wanted to do Maxwell proud.

  Gertie held out the midnight-blue dress, and Bryn stepped in. It only took a few adjustments before she was taped and tied. Mrs. Winslow twirled her finger in the air, and Bryn dutifully spun for a final examination.

  “My dear, Mr. Drake will be stunned by your beauty.”

  Bryn stepped closer to the looking glass. The transformation wasn’t magic. She still looked like herself but a different version. A prettier version.

  The braids highlighted the varied hues of her hair, and pinning them up exposed her neck. The blue color complemented her skin tone and hair. Bryn skimmed her hand over the swells of her breasts. Never had she worn a dress that exposed so much.

  The sleeves hugged the curve of her shoulders, leaving the rest of her chest bare. The back scooped to the bottom of her shoulder blades, and for some reason when she turned around to examine herself, it was almost as shocking as the front.

  New silk stockings with pretty garters and matching kid slippers completed her ensemble. The tactile sensations of her silken legs rubbing and the rustle of the flowing gossamer dress reminded her of intimacies with Maxwell. For the first time she understood the power Mary wielded. Some of that power surged through Bryn. The dress was a talisman.

  She pulled on elbow-length gloves and made her way to the drawing room. The murmur of male voices drifted out. Nerves bundled like kindling in her stomach.

  She glided to the doorway, hoping to slip in without any fuss, but the conversation stopped and the gentlemen rose in unison, greeting her in silence. Maxwell cut a strikingly masculine figure. His dark hair was combed back and tamed with a touch of pomade, his aristocratic features on display. He was dressed in all black and white with a simple cravat. The coat emphasized his broad shoulders, and his breeches were cut close, his muscular thighs apparent.

  The continued silence made her doubt what she’d seen in the looking glass. Had she grown spotty?

  “Come now, I don’t look that different, do I?”

  * * * * *

  The uncertainty in her voice prompted Maxwell to offer a compliment, but he was frozen, only able to swallow weakly.

  Did she look different? Yes, but not better, because nothing was as tempting as Bryn in her breeches, but… different. She was a woman in the gown, and as he’d surmised, the color was exquisite on her. The gauzy overlay sparkled in the candlelight. Her hair was up in braids, and his gaze traveled the long distance of her neck to explore the curves and shadows of her bosom.

  His conclusion was unarguable. Her breasts were perfect, beautifully pale and quivering slightly on each indrawn breath. Torture was knowing that her concealed dusky nipples were just as perfect.

  Lionel bestowed compliments, and the earl stepped forward to press a kiss on her gloved hand. Instead of gallantry, Maxwell wanted to throw her over his shoulder and repeat the madness that had infected him at Molly’s.

  But he’d promised himself he would not allow another transgression of the sort—unless they were wed. He clenched the back of the chair to keep himself from pouncing.

  Like a clodpoll, he only managed to choke out, “You look nice,” in a rusty, harsh voice.

  Disappointment and hurt flashed over her face, and he had the urge to drop to his knees and apologize, but he stood, lips compressed, doing his best to dam his emotions.

  Mrs. Winslow entered the room in a flourish of red velvet, dissipating the awkwardness. Her dress was cut scandalously low, and the earl looked as stunned as Maxwell felt, but in contrast, he almost tripped over his feet to press a kiss on the merry widow’s hand.

  “You look ravishing this evening, Edie.”

  “Why, thank you, David. You look rather ravishing yourself.” The earl blinked a few times and then burst out laughing, his eyes twinkling.

  He offered Edie his arm, which she took graciously, and said, “Shall we? We have much to accomplish this evening.”

  Bryn’s chin was up and her shoulders back. The only chink in her confidence was the way her gloved fingers twisted together. Lionel cleared his throat. Maxwell stared at Bryn.

  Lionel muttered, “Good Lord, Drake,” before stepping forward and offering Bryn his arm. She took it with a smile and a slicing glance in his direction.

  He was an idiot, and he’d better figure out where his brains were hiding before they arrived at Sutherland’s, or his life—and maybe Bryn’s—would be forfeit. The thought was sobering enough to move his feet toward the carriages.

  * * * * *

  Disappointment wilted Bryn like a flower. Whatever power she had felt reflected back at her in the looking glass had been false. It was all so confusing. How could Maxwell be frosty and distant one moment, then explode with a heated passion the next?

  Mr. Masterson patted her hand and whispered, “You’ve got poor Mr. Drake in knots, my dear.”

  Startled, she glanced over to see his gray eyes twinkling merrily. “I believe you’re very much mistaken, Mr. Masterson.”

  “He was stunned. Some men are not good at expressing themselves, but never doubt that such a man feels as keenly as the most verbose poet.”

  Mr. Masterson handed her into the second carriage to join Mrs. Winslow. The men entered the other.

  “I was sorry to miss your entrance, dear. What did our Mr. Drake have to say?” Mrs. Winslow smoothed her gloves and fiddled with her curls.

  “He said—and let me make sure I quote him exactly—‘you look nice.’”

  Mrs. Winslow’s eyes widened. “Oh my. He is smitten.”

  “He seemed completely unaffected, I assure you.”

  “Seemed being the key word. Look at you. For goodness’ sake, you are beyond nice. He was too in awe to think of a more appropriate compliment. He’s stingy with his words in the easiest of contexts. Imagine if he’s flummoxed.”

  First Mr. Masterson and now Mrs. Winslow. Were they right? She had little time to mull over the issue. The carriage rumbled to a halt in front of a majestic house. Lanterns lit the walkway and up to the door. Sutherland’s residence mimicked a neoclassical Greek style. Columns flanked the entry topped by intricate scrollwork.

  She picked apart the plan. So many things could go wrong. Mrs. Winslow’s job was to distract Sutherland after dinner. Maxwell and Penny were to obtain the marriage contract. Lionel would then meet them in the gardens to decipher the fine legal points of the document. Then they would all make an escape, and Penny would return the contract.

  Apparently, Bryn was expected to hold up a wall while everyone else exposed themselves to danger on her behalf. After the foolishness of her nighttime foray, she hadn’t protested her exclusion, yet the unfairness settled like an ugly stain she couldn’t quite rub out.

  A footman handed Bryn out of the carriage. The modernity of the sprawling town house made the manor house in Cragian seem medieval. She squinted to make out the details of an elaborately etched fanlight. A strong hand took hers and guided it to a hard arm.

  Maxwell glared stoically ahead, fairly stomping into the entry where a staid, dignified butler waited. Maxwell slipped her cloak off, his hands lingering a heartbeat longer than was proper on her collarbones. Her brea
th caught, and she held still, but he only handed off her cloak and divested himself of his outerwear.

  Waiting for the butler to announce them, he leaned to whisper, “You look bloody gorgeous, and I want to peel that dress off you inch by inch.”

  It was a wickedly delicious thing to say. And unexpected. Her ears buzzed, and heat bloomed through her body, accompanied by a surge of satisfaction and desire.

  The large drawing room was understated in its elegance. Soft greens and blues made the space feel both masculine and feminine. Clean lines dominated—no flounces or ruffles in sight.

  At the announcement of their names, everyone turned to examine them. Bryn’s gaze flit from one face to another. Strangers. Had the scandal that had brought her and Maxwell together filtered from Cragian to Edinburgh?

  A lean, dark-haired gentleman of average height swung a glass of champagne with a grace that matched his saunter. Yet a crackling energy emanated like a racehorse at rest.

  The man’s lazy, drawling speech was at odds with his calculating black eyes. “I’m Charles Sutherland. I’ve been most anxious to meet you, Mr. Drake.” He raised his brows, took a sip, and pitched his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “It’s an odd world we live in that a poor, sniveling bastard can rise to such heights, isn’t it? I’m sure you never imagined yourself in such a place.”

  The calm, confident manner in which Sutherland delivered his insults demolished any semblance of politeness. Bryn tensed, ready to go on the defensive. Maxwell squeezed her elbow and answered drily, “It hardly compares with the Duke of Bellingham’s, but for Edinburgh, it will do.”

  Sutherland’s eyes widened and his mouth tensed. The champagne glass was no longer swinging idly but straining under Sutherland’s clenched hand.

  Maxwell continued with a confidence that matched Sutherland. “Nevertheless, I am most grateful for the invitation. With winter upon us, Miss McCann has been bored in town with only her chaperone for company.”

  Sutherland turned his gaze on her. She wished he hadn’t. His blatant perusal of her bosom made her want to hunch her shoulders.

  “Miss McCann.” He performed a perfunctory bow but didn’t reach for her hand. Good thing too, as her free hand had a death hold on her skirts. She didn’t want to touch him. “Mary led me to believe you were a homely chit. Perhaps Craddock needs to get his wife fitted with spectacles. You’re quite a vision.”

  Sutherland turned his head but never broke his gaze from hers. “Lady Mary, Craddock. Come see who has joined my little soiree.”

  Rocks tumbled in Bryn’s stomach. The crowd parted for her sister and brother-in-law. Although Mary wore a smile, her color was high and her movements were stiff.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Lord and Lady Craddock. I very much enjoyed our visit in Cragian,” Maxwell said with a smoothness that was belied by how tense his arm had turned under her hand.

  Mary perused Maxwell like he was a buffet she planned to sample. “Maxwell, my, you’re looking quite fetching this evening. We need to find an alcove and reminisce about old times.” Mary traced the low neckline of her gown with the tip of her fan.

  Red burnished Maxwell’s cheekbones. The arrowed glance Mary aimed at Bryn was contemptuous and triumphant. A few weeks ago, Bryn might have yielded the battlefield and planted herself in a corner for the rest of the evening.

  A wellspring of anger bubbled up. She raised her chin and forced a half smile. “I find I’ve quite enjoyed Edinburgh, Mary. A shame you never thought to present me. We are accompanied by Earl Windor, lately arrived from London. Have you been introduced?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.” Mary’s smile qualified more as a grimace.

  “Perhaps I can perform introductions. Or not. He’s a busy man, and you and Craddock are barely country nobility.” Although Mary was the master at wielding words as weapons, Bryn had studied Mary’s weaknesses for years and her aim was true. Her longing to climb to the highest reaches of Society was a huge chink in her armor.

  “I can’t believe you would deign to show your face in public, my dear, considering your current status.” Venom injected Mary’s voice. She brushed Bryn’s skirt with her fan. “And blue? I would have thought a nice brown would have suited you better. You look like wilted heather.”

  Mary’s insults missed their mark. Before she could respond in kind, Maxwell said, “Bryn is the loveliest woman in the room. Every man’s eye is upon her. Including your husband’s.”

  Craddock was indeed watching them from a dozen feet away where he’d been waylaid in conversation by a thin, white-haired gentleman. Whether he was actually looking at Bryn wasn’t clear, but the seed Maxwell planted sprouted, and Mary stalked off.

  “That was quite untrue. But appreciated.” Bryn gave his arm a squeeze.

  Maxwell huffed. “It was the absolute truth.”

  The two of them moved farther into the room. Maxwell was acquainted with several gentlemen through his investment venture, and the gentlemen and their wives greeted her warmly as he performed introductions.

  During the mindless chitchat, she mulled over the possibility of Mary and Craddock complicating their plans.

  “Mr. Dugan Armstrong.” The butler’s announcement wrapped a cold fist around her heart. The sip of champagne in her mouth soured.

  The lady beside her leaned in as if imparting a secret. “Ah, Mr. Armstrong. Are you acquainted with him? The poor man was thrown over the day before his wedding. He was to marry some poor country chit out of the goodness of his heart, and she ran off. Lady Craddock’s half sister. Can you imagine? The girl must be mad.”

  “Perhaps not mad,” Bryn said, “just angry.”

  “I can’t imagine it. Mr. Armstrong is so handsome and genial.”

  Making her excuses to the woman who thought her mad, she sidled over to Maxwell, seeking his strength and protection instinctively. He had become her stable in times of need. A glance at her face had him scanning the room for the cause.

  Armstrong weaved through the drawing room, his destination clear. Bryn tucked herself close to Maxwell and braced for the confrontation.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Bloody, bloody hell. Maxwell barely kept himself from cursing aloud. Mr. Bowman was a potential client, and a drawing room brawl would destroy Maxwell’s credibility in Edinburgh. Successfully navigating the evening was proving to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. Although, having the players all in the same room would ratchet up the tension every minute. At some point, the façade would fray and the truth would emerge.

  Maxwell retreated a few feet to an unoccupied corner, Bryn at his side. Armstrong stopped two feet short of them. Too close for politeness’s sake or Maxwell’s peace of mind. Armstrong’s gaze lingered along Bryn’s décolletage, and Maxwell fisted his hands to keep from shoving him away. That’s what Armstrong wanted. To stoke a physical confrontation where he could respond and claim to be victim. Maxwell played a different sort of game. One that would win.

  “Our marriage contract is valid whether you’re soiled or not, Bryn. I’ll marry you and bed you before the winter’s end. He can’t stop me.” Armstrong raised a hand to touch her, but she batted it away. Armstrong was a kettle ready to boil. “There’s plenty your cripple can’t teach you. I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

  “That’s quite enough, Armstrong.” Maxwell kept a smile on his face but forged iron in his voice.

  “You’re not man enough to face me.”

  “On the contrary, didn’t your hired lackeys report back to you?”

  Ruddy color painted Armstrong’s cheeks, making him appear younger and less sure of himself. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Drake.”

  Maxwell hoped Dugan wasn’t a card player, because he was a poor bluff. “Perhaps. But since it’s been nothing more than a nuisance—”

  “Nuisance? You haven’t stepped foot outside your town house all week.” Armstrong’s satisfied expression fell as he realized what he’d given away.r />
  “I’ve been busy with meetings. Apparently, you’ve been busy watching me.”

  “Next time I’ll be the one to—” Armstrong snapped his mouth closed. When he spoke again, it was a guttural whisper. “Watch your back, Drake. You might find a hole in it.”

  He spun away and was lost to view on the other side of the room.

  “He means to kill you and won’t give up no matter what happens. You’ve tweaked his ego.” Bryn’s voice was thin with worry.

  “I believe you’re correct.” Maxwell shrugged. “Quite unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate? I’d call it disastrous. How can you act so blithe about the possibility?”

  “Armstrong I can handle. He’s impetuous but not terribly bright. I can work the situation to our advantage as soon as we determine what he’s gaining by marrying you. If it’s your inheritance, then I’ll buy him off. The problem arises if it’s something less tangible.”

  The call for dinner arrived. Guests milled about, organizing for the procession. The woman Bryn had been conversing with earlier sidled over. “Miss McCann, how exactly are you related to Lady Craddock again?”

  Bryn leaned in and whispered sotto voce, “I’m her mad half sister.” The woman’s eyes went wide before she turned and scurried away.

  “What was that about?” Maxwell asked.

  “The gossip is that I’m queer in the attic for abandoning such a handsome, upstanding man such as Dugan.”

  “Regretting your decision?” Dark humor dried his voice.

  “I bless the day I found you again, Maxwell.” Sudden raw honesty pulsed between them. Her eyes were warm pools he could drown in. His heart thumped an answering call against his ribs.

  Maxwell opened his mouth and then promptly shut it. He’d cursed the morning he’d awakened to find her virgin blood on him. His life had splintered since she’d crashed into it like a cannonball.

  But what he’d rebuilt was bigger and fuller than anything he’d imagined. He’d assumed the years that stretched before him would be lonely ones. He’d planned on it. Even gloried in the melancholy. Everything had changed. She’d changed everything.